About the Broken Happy Ever Afters
by Dollybelleol'whatserface
Summary: "I am a commanding officer in the British Army. I do not spit bars," he protested. A 'missing moment' as Captain James lies in the jungle after episode 3. Rated for Molly's swearing. Don't tell me Molly doesn't make him dance to the Spice Girls. Written before episode 4, so no spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

About the broken happy ever afters

 **Disclaimer: All property of the BBC and Tony Grounds. Lyrics belong to their respective artists. Why do I always shoe-horn in the Spice Girls?**

 **Author's Note: I wrote this just after Episode 3 of the Series 4, so NO SPOILERS for episode 4! I started Our Girl with Michelle Keegan, ( I know, I'm sorry!) then caught up with Molly Dawes and I'm pretty much in love with Molly and Captain James' story. Who isn't? This is my first OG fic, after spending about a month reading everyone else's, (what a MONTH!) so I hope it's ok!**

* * *

It was colder here at night; a chill had seeped through to his bones that made his teeth chatter and reminded him of freezing winter nights away on exercise in the Lake District. He felt like he had frost in his bone marrow.

The jungle was black; he was surrounded by dark shadows. He could hear the howls of wildlife and whirring insects, but worse than that was the distant screaming of the villagers that he could still hear in his head and the acrid smoke clinging to his nostrils. He could smell barbecues, and the thought of what that meant made bile rise up in his throat.

He whimpered. His tongue felt heavy; like it was too thick for his mouth. He had told Georgie that his leg only hurt when he moved. That was true; it was a white-hot, searing pain what made his eyes roll to the back of his head, when he moved. It felt like he was being shot. Repeatedly. But now, even when he wasn't moving it was still burning. It felt like all of the nerves in his thigh had been clawed out like spaghetti, exposed and seared with a hot blade.

"Shh, Boss," rasped a female voice above him. A grubby hand fluttered at the corner of his eye and he felt it rest on his forehead, soothingly. "You've only been asleep for a few minutes."

Asleep? Dimly, he was aware that he was lying back against someone warm. A woman. Her arms were around him; he felt secure but there was something wrong with them. They were longer and the hands gripping his shoulders were bigger; not the tiny, child-like ones he was used to. She smelled of stale sweat and dried blood. This was not Molly.

A very beautiful face loomed above his, looking concerned. He knew those chestnut brown eyes from somewhere, but they were normally warm. Now, they reminded him of a sobbing bride.

"Lane," he muttered, deciding that it was her that he recognized.

"Yeah?"

He shook his head to say that it wasn't a question, he wasn't trying to talk but he didn't have the energy. He let his eyelids close, welcoming sleep, again.

 **OG OG OG**

" _You took an instamatic camera and pulled my sleeves around my heart. Because YOU'RE GORGEOUS, I'D DO ANYTHING FOR YOUU_ ," she belted out at him tunelessly, half-singing along to the radio, half-teasing him, pointing at him with a sauce-covered wooden spoon.

"Including turning _Absolute 90s_ off?" he asked her, stepping up behind her and kissing her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Molly grinned, shrugging her shoulder up as his breath tickled her neck. "And miss me All Saints? Not a chance, sunshine."

She turned back to the saucepan of chilli, Charles still surgically attached to her back. "You _are_ too gorgeous to be allowed, though ya know? It ain't polite."

"My manners are exquisite, thank you very much," he murmured. " And you remain the most heavenly creature I've ever seen. Even hungover," he added, nipping her neck, gently.

Molly shook her head at him, turning around to pull him towards her by his shirt to be able to kiss him properly. "Any chance your tall self can get the rice down from the top shelf, please?"

"Mmh-hmm," he said, kissing her nose and striding over to open the cupboard. "Though don't think I don't know that this is all a ploy so that you can check out my arse."

"Well, it's a very nice one," remarked Molly, openly smirking at it.

They worked together side-by-side, Molly dry-frying mince and caterwauling along to the radio and Charles boiling the rice and watching her in amusement. Until a vaguely familiar song started playing and Molly let her spoon drop with an almighty clang, letting her jaw drop in awe and hitting him on the arm, excitedly.

"Charlie! Charlie! Turn her up!"

"No," he said dryly, sensing what was coming. "Absolutely not, Molly, no," he laughed as Molly turned the hob down and pulled on his hand, as if she were pulling him onto a dance floor.

"Yes!"

She began to dance, wiggling her hips and waving her arms about. His eyes crinkled up at the massive smile on her face and her hair flying about, wildly.

He put his own spoon down and swaggered over to her, pulling his best boy band face.

"You do the ' _has_ ,'" ordered Molly, already singing.

"Oh, I'm bringing the ' _has_ ', Molly James. Here we go."

"I wanna…"

"-Ha."

"I wanna…"

"-Ha"

"I wanna…"

"-Ha."

"I wanna…"

"-Ha."

"I wanna really, really, really wanna zig-ah-zig-ahhhh! Now LEFT and point and twist!" Molly shouted, sounding every inch the drill leader, as she ordered him through the dance routine she used to practice in the schoolyard in 1997. Or, she would have if she weren't in hysterics.

Later, when they were lying _not_ very comfortably on the kitchen floor, having…abandoned their cooking, Molly raised herself up on her elbow to peer down at him.

"If two-section could've seen that, that'd be your reputation right down the shitter," she teased him.

Charles raised an incredulous eyebrow at her and looked pointedly at her naked chest.

"Not _that_ , you plum. I meant you dancing and spitting bars to the Spice Girls," she tittered, running her fingers through the curls on his forehead. "You'd never be able to get them to do anything, again."

"I am a commanding officer in the British Army. I do not _spit bars_ ," he protested.

"Captain Sternface knows all the words to _Wannabe_ ," she continued in a singsong.

Charles kissed her quiet, stroking her face as if it were something breakable. He couldn't help but marvel at the smattering of freckles across her nose. And the fine lines around her eyes, brought on by allowing every single emotion that she felt to play across her features. And the soft patch of skin just behind her jaw that was as soft as a newborn's. And her eyes that glimmered like sea glass. They were his most favourite colour in the world…

 **OG OG OG**

That was the Molly who was now lying down beside him on the ground, watching him; Molly from the kitchen the night they danced to the Spice Girls and burnt their dinner. He reached out to touch her hand but found fresh air instead. He craned his neck to look at Georgie but apparently; she had not noticed their new campmate. She was dozing to his right.

"Hi."

"Hi, yourself," she whispered back. "You and that leg, Charlie. What am I gonna do with you, ey?"

"I'm sorry," he muttered, still reaching out to touch her.

"What for?" she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I got injured. You…told me not to."

"Were you doing something stupidly brave, again?" she asked, rolling her eyes at him.

"No," he frowned. "And I think Lane might be angry with me, too."

Molly snorted. "I don't envy you there, mate! She's got a hell of a slap on her. What did you do?"

Charles sighed and closed his eyes, blocking out the matte black sky, but then Molly disappeared, too so he opened them, again.

"I wrote in my report that she and Elvis were emotionally involved. We both got bollocked," he told her, wincing, his eyes pained.

"Well, they were," replied Molly, nonplussed. "The top brass knew they were-…"

"And I told her I crossed the line with my feelings for her," he admitted quickly, talking over her.

Molly's face slid from confusion to disbelief and then settled on wariness. She sat up, slowly, frowning at him.

"What do you mean?"

There was a very heavy, painful silence between them. He didn't think he'd ever seen Molly look at him like that. Not since she'd overheard Smurf asking him about his wife in Afghanistan.

He swallowed, aware of how bad that had sounded. "I just meant that…I shouldn't care about her more than anyone else in my team. But I do. Because of Elvis."

He waited for her to answer him, but she didn't. She wouldn't even look up from the ground.

"What do you mean _feelings_ for her?" she snapped at him.

"I can't," Charles sighed, exasperated that neither Georgie nor Molly could comprehend what he meant. "I can't stay detached…I feel like I need to step in where Elvis left off."

"Well, that's very fucking noble of you," she said sarcastically, tears springing up in her eyes. "Considering they were shagging."

"That's not what I meant, Molly!" he insisted, again trying to reach for her, but feeling nothing.

"Then what _do_ you mean?" she asked, furiously, her eyes glistening.

Charles opened his mouth, but then closed it again; at loss for words. He shook his head, forlornly, willing Molly to understand.

"Please don't cheat on me, Charlie," she said in the smallest, saddest voice he had ever heard. She stared at him, looking so devastated that he felt his own eyes prick with tears.

"I never would," he said, hoarsely.

"But you're fucking thinking about it, though!" she shouted, fury replacing hurt in about a millisecond. "And she's a medic, too. That's very you," she spat, laughing humourlessly.

He shook his head, appalled. "I only love you. I only ever will."

"Except I'm not around though, am I?" argued Molly, sounding bitter. "But she is. You've spent more time with Georgie than me these past 18 months. I can see the attraction. Hard as nails, brilliant medic. Looks like a Victoria's Secret model and all. The most annoying this is it's impossible to hate her because she's the nicest girl in the world."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.

Charles wanted to reach out and hold her more than anything; anything to make her stop crying because the sight was breaking his heart but his arms didn't seem to work.

"You left," he told her, his throat uncomfortably tight, trying to keep the accusing tone out of his voice. "They told us there was no heartbeat and then three weeks later you were back in Afghan and you left _me._ "

He didn't bother trying to stop a tear trickling down through the grime on his face.

Neither of them spoke for a moment; he listened to the ominous cracks of the jungle in the darkness surrounding them. Molly lay back down and rolled over on her side to face him.

"There was no one to leave, Charlie," she said, softly. "You never came back from Afghanistan. Not really."

He gaped at her, the pain in his chest making him too aware of the pain in his leg. He tried to move, again to reach her but it sent a wave of agony rippling through him.

"Lie still, would you?" You're gonna make it worse," she sighed.

"Am I going to lose my leg, Molly?" he asked her, with grim resignation. Georgie had been lying to him. Molly never could.

"How should I bleedin' know? I'm not really here, am I?"


	2. Chapter 2

About the broken happy ever afters

 **Disclaimer: Property of the BBC and Tony Grounds.**

 **Author's Note: *Scowls* Like Molly would send that in an email. Unfortunately, I think there's definitely going to be a kiss between CJ and everyone's 2nd favourite medic, but she'll decide that it feels wrong to be kissing someone who isn't Elvis. Anyhoo, here we go! This is completely non-canon from Episode 3.**

* * *

It was 2am and she was trying to be quiet; she hadn't even turned the hallway light on but the rustling of fabric as she took her uniform off and out of habit, folded it, made his ears prick up and he opened his eyes.

He followed her dark shape with his eyes, feeling a thrill of excitement that she had finally returned. He felt his lips pull into a smile of their own accord.

" _Shun_!" he shouted suddenly.

Molly, clad only in her underwear and tank top, gave a squeak of fright at the noise and automatically stood halfway to attention before her brain seemed to catch up with her.

"You SHIT," she shrieked at him, clutching her chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack you lanky fuckmuppet!" She gave him the hardest smack she could muster, looking furious and snapped on the bedside lamp.

Charles sat up in bed, chuckling and rubbing his upper arm. "You didn't quite manage to stand to attention, there. I'm a Captain," he said, self-importantly. "Do you want to give that another try?"

"Nah, fuck off," she retorted, indignantly.

"It's lovely to see you too, Molly," he said, smirking at her and pulling her towards him by her wrists.

Molly grinned at him reluctantly. "I'm no longer pleased to see you, as it goes," she said, airily. " And that thing I texted you that I'd do as soon as I got back? You can do it yourself."

Charles tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully. "Not entirely sure that's possible, Dawsey."

"Shame that, then innit?" she said, poking her tongue between her teeth and squealing as he stood up on the bed, picked her up and spun her around.

"I missed you," he breathed, still spinning her around. "So. Fucking. Much," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss to her forehead, her nose and her lips.

"I've only been away for-OOF!"

He had finally lost his balance on the wobbly surface of the bed and toppled over, pulling Molly on top of him. They lay, laughing and groaning in a tangle of limbs and pillows.

Molly raised her head from his chest, slowly as they got their breath back. "I missed you, too," she wheezed. "Oh Christ, I think I've cracked a rib… Did you know they have square sausages in Scotland? They're _well_ dodgy."

Charles wrinkled his nose at her in amusement and chuckled.

"A week doing Ebola training and the only thing you're bothered about is square sausages?"

"They ain't right!" she protested, attempting to roll off him, but Charles held on to her, one hand smoothing back the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped from her customary French plait.

"Did you just stroke my hair? Like I'm some sort of mutt?" she asked.

"Well, we don't have a dog so you'll have to do," he replied, running his fingers over her head, trying to feel for her bobby pins.

Molly snuggled back down into his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist and closed her eyes happily, as he undid her hair and combed it out with his fingers.

When she raised herself up on her elbow to gaze down at him, fondly, her hair was a tumbling mass of waves and she was his Molly once again. The one from a sweltering tent in Afghanistan that always somehow managed to smell like his old school sports hall. The one who encouraged him to 'Chug Chug Chug,' a half-pint of whiskey, complete with tabletop drumming the last time they went out for dinner.

"There she is," he whispered, grinning manically. "That's much better."

Molly stretched up to kiss him, the ends of her hair tickling his chest and then his neck as she firmly took hold of his face and clambered up his body, the brand new engagement ring around her neck dangling between them.

 **OG OG OG**

There was something up his nose. It was itchy. His throat felt scratchy and sore, like he had been asleep with it open for too long, and there was a funny, iron-like taste in his mouth that vaguely reminded him of the dentist. He wiggled his toes, hopefully but there was a toasty warm blanket weighing his legs down.

There was something in his hand. Something heavy and damp. His fingers closed around it and he felt the mattress move underneath him.

"Charlie?" said a desperate voice to his left.

Whatever was clutching his hand tightened its grip and he opened his eyes, blearily. There was a dark-haired woman in army combat uniform sitting at his bedside. Judging by her proximity, she had been asleep holding his hand, with her head on his mattress. Her face refused to come swimming into focus, so he shut his eyes, again.

Georgie's was not the face he wanted to see.

She may have saved his miserable life; she may well have been the bravest soldier he had known but all he wanted to see…was Molly. Even though there was a good chance that she might despise him, but he understood that. He despised himself, too.

"Hey," said the voice softly. He felt a clammy hand stroke his cheek, tenderly. "You sleep, it's ok."

There was a rustle of clothes and he felt a damp kiss on his forehead. His brow furrowed at the loss of contact.

He felt her sweaty hand link her fingers through his and a light pressure rest on his shoulder as she, whoever she was laid her head there and he felt sleep take him, again.

When he woke up, again, it was because there was something being put in his ear. He opened his eyes, a groan of irritation rumbling in his throat, to see a young nurse in a plastic apron bending over him.

"Sorry, Captain James," she said, chirpily, "I'm just taking your temperature, ok?"

He felt his eyelids flutter closed, because he didn't have the energy to keep them open, but did not go back to sleep. He knew he was in hospital. He knew that from the smell of starched sheets and the irritation of a nasal cannula delivering oxygen up his nose. And the fact that it felt like his body was made of shattered Lego. But he was definitely not in the UK. It was dank and murky; the air felt too hot to breathe; like he was breathing in air from an oven. He could not feel his injured leg but he couldn't be bothered to sit up and check it.

"Molly," he muttered, dozily.

The nurse chuckled softly. "Every time we do your obs," she said, shaking her head. "She's here. She's just outside."

"She's here?"

He felt something in his chest lift, but he could not tell whether it was joy or disbelief.

Images of Molly skittered through his mind; Molly pushing him against a wall to kiss him just before their wedding breakfast; Molly waiting for him in an aircraft hangar, the only face he could see in the crowd; Molly forcing him to dance in their kitchen, her face lit up with glee; Molly with tears gliding down her pale face as she screamed at him…

"She's here," she assured him, her eyes darting between the machine he was connected to and her clipboard as she wrote something down.

There was a creak and a squeak, which he assumed was the door opening.

There was a charged silence, like there was someone watching him, as the nurse asked him to lift his arms above his head, wriggle his toes and shone a torch in both of his eyes. Feeling like he was doing some sort of hospital-style _I am the Music Man,_ he scrunched his eyes up impatiently.

The nurse gave him a small smile and left his line of vision. He heard the sound of a tap running and the clang of a metal bin closing and footsteps on a linoleum floor.

"He's been asking for you, Ma'am," he heard her say, quietly. Then he heard the squeak and creak of the door closing.

The room was silent, again. He heard the whirring of whatever drip was attached to his right hand, filling the quiet.

"Well, I ain't standing to attention," croaked a small voice.

Charles' eyes snapped open and he jerked his neck, painfully towards the voice.

There, standing beside the door, forlornly playing with a wedding ring that was hanging from a chain around her neck was Corporal James-Dawes.


	3. Chapter 3

About the broken happy ever afters

 **Disclaimer: Nope, if I was in charge, that would NOT have happened. Property of TG and the BBC.**

 **Author's Note: Sorry this has taken me a while to update...I sort of fell out of love with Our Girl. Anyone wondering just what on earth CJ and Georgie are going to talk about? No no...they're too Twilight-esque for me.**

* * *

He had not been in his right mind. He was off his model face on morphine and delirious with fever. He couldn't possibly have meant that…could he? She wasn't blind; she could appreciate that he was like the main character from a black and white aftershave advert as much as the next woman, but that was it. That whole tall, dashing save-the-day officer and Prince William accent vibe he had going on, well that was all very well but she had her own save-the-day hero.

She had already had her life's great love. Her very _world_ spun for Elvis. Still spun for Elvis.

He was the last thing she thought of before she went to sleep; sometimes she was able to shut him out for hours on end, but he always seeped through at the end of the day, like the chinks of sunlight that always managed to stream through blackout curtains. Sometimes, she woke up in the middle of the night and it all felt like a nightmare; as if watching him falling from that building had all been a bad dream.

She would roll over in bed and find nothing but an empty space and then feel the familiar itch of tears behind her eyes and the painful lump in her throat as she realized that she was very awake and very alone. Breathing would physically hurt. Grief had made rice paper out of her lungs and diaphragm.

She still loved Elvis; loved him more than she knew what to do with and maybe…Captain James was the only one who had an inkling of what she was feeling. He had an Elvis-shaped piece of his soul missing, too.

If anything had happened to Captain James, he would have wanted Elvis to look after and protect Molly. Give her his lifetime's worth of brotherly love. To make sure the stars still shone for her, or whatever. Elvis would have put it much more eloquently. He could have made Ed Sheeran lyrics look like Penguin wrapper jokes.

This was just Charles doing the same thing for Elvis, wasn't it? He didn't and could not have romantic feelings for her, surely? He and Molly…they were iconic. They were the couple it hurt to look at because they were so sweet that it almost made your teeth ache.

She exhaled air through her nose and adjusted her beret, self-consciously as she walked through the grim corridors of the hospital, looking for the Intensive Care Unit. It reminded her of the hospitals that she saw from 70s TV programmes, where the ambulances were vans with bells rung by hand. It was all a bit _Life on Mars_. All the signs were in English and Kriol, but it still smelled comfortingly of bleach and airplane food.

Then, as she rounded a corner she came across a burly mountain of an armed security guard, who looked like he had come straight from a shift as a bouncer of a grotty nightclub.

"Corporal Georgie Lane," she said formally, raising her eyebrows expectantly at him. "Two Section. I'm here to see Captain James. He was medevaced in two days ago?"

The security guard looked her up and down and grunted, motioning her to continue.

"Thanks, Shrek," she muttered under her breath as soon as she had walked passed him. She passed a door marked Critical Care, where through the window she could see a handful of medics milling around in blue scrubs; ventilators beeping ominously. Then, she saw a wooden door marked Intensive Care and buzzed to be left in.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. He had to be ok. She could _not_ be the medic who lost Captain James; he had been in her care as much as she had been in his. He was Elvis' best friend. He had to be fine.

Georgie swallowed as she neared the last door, her footsteps squeaking on the linoleum floor. There was a small chalkboard outside bearing the words; _C. JAMES. Male, 33 NBM_ written in white chalk. She peered through the window; it was gridded, made up of lots of little squares, like the windows from her primary school.

There, on the bed, the squares of the window distorting the scene, lay Charles. He was pale and grey, like an ashen puppet with cut strings and attached to tubes. There was a metal cage-like contraption encircling his right leg, like barbed wire, but he was at least, clean. All traces of blood and grime had gone and he was sleeping peacefully. He looked so much younger. But the torture instrument keeping his leg in place was not what had caught her eye. No; what she could not quite tear her eyes from, was the sight of a petite woman wearing a soldier's combat uniform identical to her own, curled up asleep on a splintered wooden chair, her head resting on Charles' good leg. She was gripping his hand like it was her lifeline. One of Charles' hands was resting, protectively on top of her head; her dark plait splayed out in stark contrast against the pristine white sheet.

Dawesy the Gob, now the frantic wife keeping vigil. She smiled, sadly. She did not belong here, not at the moment. Taking one last appraising look at Charles' monitors, she turned on her heel and left.

 **OG OG OG**

He was finally stable enough to go home; they had managed to stop the infection from eating away at his leg and they had done an emergency clean out surgery, but he needed another one and extensive physiotherapy. For that, he needed to be back in Britain.

Georgie read through his medical notes; all immaculately ordered and added a photocopy of her own notes of everything she had done as his medic, whilst he had been under her care. She drummed her fingers indecisively against the desk, her eyes boring into a freshly sealed letter, with her own neat handwriting snaking across it. Sighing and feeling more drained than ever, she bundled them up in a pristine brown paper envelope, ready for transportation.

"If his medical team in the UK have any questions, they can contact me at any time," she told the waiting Private, smiling gravely.

"Thank you, Corporal," he said shortly.

Georgie stood, acknowledging the salute he gave with a nod. She was in the cramped staff room next to the ICU. It looked very basic and sparse; there was an ancient fridge that was buzzing quietly in the background and a set of patio table and chairs. Somewhere, just down the corridor they were preparing Charles for his transfer home and she had absolutely no idea when or if she would ever see him again. He was her last link to Elvis. The thought of that made flashes of Elvis' charred face float across her mind's eye and a painful lump form in her throat.

Bursting out of the staff room, she all but ran to Charles' room, her heart pounding.

He was surrounded by army and medical personnel; all masked and wired up and still unconscious. He looked ghostly pale; there was no trace of colour in his lips at all.

A dark head spun around at her intrusion, but on seeing her, Molly's eyes lit up in relief.

"He's sedated," she told her, croakily. "Away with the bloody fairies. Probably for the best, considering they're putting him on that piddly tin pot plane from _Go Outside_ ," she joked, weakly, turning back to glance at Charles.

But her smile did not reach her eyes; they were too full and pained. Georgie felt a small pressure on her arm as Molly pulled her to one side by her sleeve.

She looked a mess. A proper mess. She felt guilt squeeze at her chest as Charles' fever-laden words about his feelings for her came rushing back. It was clear that Molly hadn't slept or done her hair in days, but her eyes flashed with urgency.

"Did you write it?"

Georgie averted her gaze and looked instead at Charles, lying there like a corpse. She could feel her eyes burning, again.

"Yes," she muttered, quietly.

Molly let out a breath of what seemed like relief, with her eyes closed. "Thank you," she said, sniffing. But when she opened her eyes again, she looked just as strained.

"Don't thank me," Georgie protested, that now-familiar wave of guilt churning in his stomach.

"You saved his _life_ ," Molly began.

"Yeah," said Georgie, flatly. "But I've probably just ruined his career."


End file.
